Remedies
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: Martin. What had he been thinking? To say that this was stupid would have been an almost inconceivable understatement. -D/M Oneshot.


**Spoilers:** I just spilled boiling water on my hand, so typing may be slow going for a while. Playing piano's out, too, I'm thinking. Dammit.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Without a Trace, beaches, hurricanes _or_ emotional turmoil.

**Author's Note:** Another **FCG Challenge** piece.

1. It must include the phrase "Well that seemed like a good idea at the time"  
2. It must be a minimum of 1000 words, but no more than 2000 words.  
3. It must have a rating of at least PG-13.  
4. It must include the ocean and a pier  
5. It must be about some type of miscommunication whether it's verbal or physical.

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The water thrashed almost violently as he stared; the whole place was deserted. Hurricane season wasn't quite so popular with the beach-goers. Even avid surfers stayed away on days like this. Danny stood out on the pier and let the spray from the rare waves soak him, wondering what would happen if he let go of the railing.

Screw _all_ that shit that people spouted about the soothing effects of the ocean on a calm day - Danny wanted turmoil. He wanted something to feel the same way he did; it didn't matter that the ocean wasn't sentient; it was there, and it was seething, and it was physically freezing him to the point of numbness.

He wasn't poetic enough – or hopeful enough – to believe that the water could freeze him inside. It wouldn't take away anything but the aching pain that throbbed just under his left eye, and he silently damned whoever had decided that nerve cells were a good idea.

Despite what people seemed to believe – or _wanted_ to believe – there was no way to concentrate on physical pain to distract from emotional pain. At least, if there was, Danny'd never found it. Sixteen years of life, and he still hadn't found an effective way of screwing over his damned fragility. Physically or mentally.

He was small enough that he couldn't fight _like_ a man, but big enough to get into fights _with_ men. He was intelligent enough to do just about anything, but stupid enough to honestly believe that he could. He was strong enough to stand up to people, but timid enough to let it affect him afterwards.

Like now. None of this should bother him. He was street-smart, clever, charming, unaffected. Only he wasn't. He could never bring himself to _not_ care. And that led him to moments like these: seething, alone, in pain, bruised. And he'd be damned if he could ignore any of it.

The burning in his throat refused to subside, even as the water on his skin cooled quickly in the harsh wind. He slammed a fist onto the railing, almost screaming when it didn't hurt for the cold. Instead, he clenched his jaw, a sudden wave of pain reminding him why that was a bad idea. He knew his cheekbone would be decorated with a nicely fist-shaped bruise tomorrow, and wondered if his new teacher would be as indifferent as the last few.

He hoped so. The last thing he needed was _more_ trouble. He managed to find that enough on his own; his ability to screw himself over was seconded only by Family Services'. He laughed at the irony, this time ignoring the pain in his cheek.

Yeah, there were some things the ocean couldn't remedy.

* * *

Danny sat up with a grunt, casting a glance at the body-shaped lump behind him before flopping carefully back down onto his pillow. A frown decorated his face; that had been an odd dream. One that he hadn't had in a long time and one he hadn't particularly ever wanted to have again.

As far as Danny was concerned, there was a part of him that had always been in Hialeah and could damned well stay there.

He wasn't someone who believed that changing direction in life involved ignoring parts of yourself, but Danny didn't _want_ that scared little kid. He didn't _want_ to feel like that; ever. He'd had enough self-loathing and self-pity to last him more than his share of a lifetime, and he didn't want to prolong that any more than necessary.

He'd vowed, after moving to New York, that that kid was gone. Then Law School had sucked him in, and he'd been cocky and naive enough to think that that meant he was free of his past. Then alcohol had - quite happily - proved him incredibly wrong.

Since then, he made sure not to get like that; not to believe he was ever _free_, but simply _changed_. Every time he craved a drink he remembered this with ease. But today was different. There was no precedent for this odd little memory. It wasn't like it had been a one-off occurrence. There'd been dozens of troubled beach visits when he'd lived in Florida; the only thing that tended to change was his injury. That time, it had been a bruised cheek; another time it had been a bleeding nose, a sprained wrist, a gashed hand.

They all blended together when he didn't _think_ about them. Specifics weren't really his priority when it came to reliving his past.

In an odd way, the memory rattled him more than the usual nightmares. Nightmares were expected of him; 'troubled' past, FBI agent… It wasn't like nightmares were uncommon for any of them.

As if to try and prove himself right, he turned his head towards the sleeping form next to him. And oh, God. What had he been thinking? To say that this was stupid would have been an almost inconceivable understatement.

Martin.

His partner.

His friend.

Martin.

And seducing Martin… well, that had seemed like a good idea at the time. Truth be told, it hadn't really been a seduction; more an offered opportunity that was taken. Enthusiastically.

It wasn't that Danny regretted sleeping with him, as such. And the problem wasn't that he wanted to forget this happened – wanted to go back to 'normal'. It was that he _never_ wanted to go back again. He didn't _want_ to forget this happened. He wanted this every night; wanted to drag Martin home after a long day and tear his clothes off.

The thought that scared him the most, though, was that he also wanted to be able to just _have_ Martin. Waking up with Martin in the mornings – or whatever ungodly hour – seemed incredibly appealing. But Danny Taylor, the Unaffected, did not have these thoughts. Ever. About anyone.

Never had he 'dated' one person with whom he wanted a _relationship_. And yet here was Martin. In his bed. Watching him.

Danny did a double-take. Yes; blue eyes met his in the near-dawn light of the room. And, God help him, they were fearful, cautious. They took Danny back to the previous hours; never had he seen Martin so open. He was sure the same was true for himself, but preferred not to think about that possibility.

But this, right here, was harder than he had been expecting. He was sure, now, of what he truly wanted, and parts of him didn't really like that conclusion. The same parts of him that had kept him from taking what he wanted for the past six years, the parts that he had shoved far, far into the back of his mind last night.

Martin now looked almost nervous, as if afraid of what Danny was thinking. Which, Danny knew, wasn't such a bizarre fear. Hell, _he_ was afraid of what he was thinking.

Apparently seeing the indecision in Danny's expression, Martin made to get up, muttering something about having to leave. And this made Danny's decision for him. He was more afraid of losing Martin than he was of the ramifications of their relationship – whatever it turned out to be.

"Martin," he sighed, just loud enough to catch the other man's attention. Martin stopped, half-way to finding his hastily discarded clothes, and looked at Danny. He sat up, conscious of the fact that Martin averted his eyes from Danny's exposed skin. He saw Martin's face redden in the dim light, and he fought back the sudden urge to laugh. "Martin, you don't have to leave," he told him, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.

Martin looked cautious for a second, as if sure that Danny was only being genial; offering because he felt obliged. He turned away from Danny for a minute, and when he met his eyes again, his expression was unreadable.

"Do you _want_ me to leave?" he asked, voice emotionless. Danny mentally steeled himself, forcing his voice level.

"No," he said simply, his voice as emotionless as Martin's. Martin waited a few minutes, as if weighing his options before nodding in acceptance of Danny's admission.

As Martin settled onto the bed next to him, Danny knew that this conversation was far from over, but was, for now, more than content to let it stay that way.

Yeah, the scared little boy was gone.

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End file.
